


What You Never Knew You Wanted

by RJ_Anderson



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: AU or not AU?, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-14
Updated: 2004-02-14
Packaged: 2020-12-28 14:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RJ_Anderson/pseuds/RJ_Anderson
Summary: Faced with a conflict of loyalties she could never have anticipated, Syd struggles between her feelings for Vaughn and her duty to Weiss. Canon compliant up to "The Nemesis" (3x06).





	1. Part One

They warned you about the dreams, but only at the beginning, when you were still reeling with the shock of your two lost years and everything else you'd lost along with them. Nobody would have blamed you if you'd forgotten.

Still, you were trained - even before you knew you were being trained - to remember whatever they told you. So you remember, and night after night you steel yourself, knowing that even if the dreams haven't come yet, they will.

What you don't realize is that soon you won't be able to sleep at all.

All the while your work for the CIA carries on at its usual frenetic, adrenaline-driven pace: Mexico City. Moscow. Seville. Pamplona. You've never suffered much from jet-lag, but after a succession of fitful nights both home and away, you're beginning to feel like you have a permanent case of it.

Having to stab the man you love and watch his limp body roll down the hill at your feet doesn't exactly help the insomnia. Even when you find out - to your intense relief - that Vaughn will pull through, even when you finally get the chance to visit him and see for yourself he's okay, it's only to be bitterly reminded that his life, his love, belong not to you but to the woman he married a few months ago. He's Lauren's now, not yours. And you had better learn to deal with it.

That night you lie awake for what seems like forever, staring first at the ceiling, now at the wall, then at the moonlight filtering through the curtains, until the darkness and the silence blur together and time ceases to have any meaning. When at last the alarm clock in your head goes off, you sit up glassy-eyed and exhausted, wondering how on earth you're going to get through the day.

Your eyes in the mirror have blue circles under them. You take a quick shower, smear concealer over the worst of the damage, then wriggle your way into a suit, grab your jewelry off the nightstand and head for the door, pausing only to frown at your unmade bed, which is even more of a mess than usual. Still, no time to tidy up, you're going to be late, so move, Sydney, move.

But you're so tired, it's like you're trapped in slow motion. Even the chain around your neck feels heavy.

x

The CIA Ops Center, when you get there, looks much the same as always: same layout, same offices, same faces in the corridor. Except for Kendall's absence and Carrie's conspicuously pregnant figure, it could almost be two years ago, and it's all too tempting to wish that it were.

Then in the window you catch a reflected glimpse of your father's smile, and it reminds you that some things, at least, change for the better. You turn, and smile back at him.

"I thought you might not make it this morning," he says, brows raised in mild surprise. "We were just about to have the meeting without you."

There's no reproach in his voice: if anything, he sounds impressed. "I'm fine," you tell him. It's been a rough few days, but not _that_ rough. You wonder why he's being so indulgent, but he's already opening the door to the conference room, and there's no more time to think about it.

All the usual people are there, seated and waiting: Dixon, Marshall, Weiss, Vaughn (but not, you notice with relief, Lauren - it must be an internal meeting). Weiss gives you a sidelong glance as you sit down, a smile crinkling his eyes. Marshall wiggles his fingers shyly and grins hello. Vaughn doesn't look at you at all.

As it turns out, this is a debriefing - but not the one you were expecting, about the trip you and Marshall took to Osaka last week. Instead, it's Vaughn who pushes back his chair and stands, his expression bleak and his eyes still avoiding yours. You wonder what he's going to say - what could he possibly have to tell, when he just got out of hospital? But then he starts talking about a contact he made in Montserrat, and you realize he must be referring to events that happened months ago, maybe even years. Still, it's important background for something, probably your next assignment, so you sit up and take notice.

"Thank you, Agent Vaughn," says Dixon when it's over, and Vaughn gives him a curt nod and sits down. You try to catch Vaughn's eye, reassure him with a smile, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the screen in front of him.

Maybe he had a fight with Lauren, you think. Or maybe she's been called away on NSC business and he's missing her. After all, you remind yourself (ignoring how much the reminder hurts), they're still practically newlyweds.

Dixon appears satisfied with Vaughn's report. He asks Marshall to write some new tracking software, tells Weiss to follow up on a couple of leads, and nods assent to some suggestions made by your father. When at last he turns to you, you straighten up expectantly, but all he says is, "You all right, Syd?"

"I'm fine," you say, surprised.

The concern in his dark eyes remains, but he doesn't argue the point. "Very well. This meeting is dismissed."

No assignment for you, then - it really was just a debriefing. But you feel oddly left out of the loop. None of the names or incidents Vaughn mentioned were familiar, and all the ops discussed seem to have been ones you had no part in. It's an unwelcome reminder of just how much time you lost, how many things happened while you were away.

As you follow your father out the door you are acutely aware of the warmth of Vaughn's lean body close behind you. You are just about to turn and speak to him, but he brushes past you and breaks away from the group in a series of brisk strides, heading purposefully for his desk.

Something is wrong. It isn't like Michael to be rude, not without provocation. And as far as you know, you haven't done anything to offend him. When you visited him in hospital, he left no doubt in your mind that he understood, that he forgave you - in fact, that he was grateful to you for saving his life. So it can't be the stabbing, agonizing as that experience was for both of you. It's got to be something else... but what?

Setting your jaw determinedly, you quicken your stride, catching up to him just as he reaches his workstation. There's no question he knows you're there, but even now he doesn't acknowledge you, only pulls out his chair and sits down, reaching for the keyboard.

"Vaughn, what's the-" you start to say, but the sight of his hands stops you short, steals your breath, freezes the words on your tongue. Every bone of those hands is familiar to you, every crease, every callus, every scar: you remember with acute clarity the feeling of those palms caressing your skin, the long slow strokes of those fingers through your hair, before time and Lauren drove you apart. Nothing about those hands has changed since you saw them last... except for one, vital thing.

"Where is..." Your voice is barely a whisper, and it cracks on the last word; you take a deep breath and try again. "Vaughn... where's your wedding ring?"

He slams both hands down on the desk and spins around to face you. His eyes blaze with cold fury, and you can tell that the only thing keeping him from jumping to his feet and shouting at you is his determination not to make a scene. Instead he grips the arms of the chair and grates the words out between his teeth: "Look, Syd. I know you've just been through a tough time. But that - was low. Even for you."

And before you can even begin to process what he's just said, let alone reconcile yourself to the bitter contempt in his tone, he shoves his chair back and stalks away.

For a long time you stand there staring into space, battered by conflicting emotions. The revelation that he'd just left Lauren, or she him, filled you for a moment with a sudden, wild hope; but now it also fills you with shame, because their marriage never even had a chance, and Vaughn obviously thinks it's your fault...

"Psst. Hey, Syd."

It's Weiss, beckoning you from across the room. The sight of his familiar, ordinary face is a relief, and without hesitation you start toward him. He's been Michael's best friend for twenty years, after all: if anybody knows what's going on, or what you should do about it, he will.

As soon as you reach Weiss he takes your arm and steers you back into a familiar, secluded alcove - the "flirting corner," he used to call it, when you and Vaughn held your murmured conferences there. Since you came back, and noticed that the only ones using it were Vaughn and Lauren, you've done your best to avoid it.

"Look," Weiss says as soon as the door has shut, turning to look at you with his dark, earnest eyes. "I love you for trying. But just... let it go, okay? If Mike can't get over this, that's his problem. Not yours. Or mine."

"I just-"

"I know. But you've got enough on your plate right now, without trying to fix everybody else's problems too. C'mere-" and he gathers you into his arms, in an embrace so warm and comforting that you nearly burst into tears. He's been so good to you, since you came back. It can't have been easy for him trying to be Mike's friend and yours at the same time without taking sides, but somehow he's managed it, and you're desperately grateful for his support.

You cling to him for a long moment, eyes closed and cheek pressed to the smooth gabardine of his lapel. Then the circle of his arms loosens and you take the cue to step back, looking up into his face.

"How did it happen?" you ask softly.

It's not a rhetorical question, but he surprises you by taking it as one. "Oh, Syd. Don't let him get to you. It's going to be okay." He reaches out, tracing the curve of your cheek with his fingers in an oddly intimate gesture, and then he brings his other hand up to frame your face and before you can even react, let alone pull away, Eric Weiss kisses you.

It's not just a friendly peck, either. It's a lover's kiss, strong and passionate. He kisses you like it's not the first time, or even the second; in fact, he kisses you like a man who knows exactly how you like to be kissed, and who's had enough practice to be very, very good at it.

No. This is crazy. You're friends, that's all you've ever been, and whatever insanity has taken over the Ops Center this morning, you're not going to be part of it. You break away, panting, ready to give Weiss a piece of your mind -

\- and as his left hand falls away from your face, something on the third finger flashes gold -

Married? He's not married -

But that's a wedding band, so he obviously is -

But then why would he -

That's not like him -

Unless -

\- and looking down at the strangely heavy necklace you grabbed off the night table, you see the twin of that ring threaded on its chain, with an elegant diamond solitaire beside it -

No. It can't -

_I'm not -_

\- and your stomach lurches and your knees start to buckle -

\- and your husband (but when? How? And for the love of heaven, _why?)_ says, "Dammit, I _knew_ you weren't really okay!" He thumbs your eyelids up, staring into your eyes. "Pupils dilated. _Breathe_, Syd. Nice and slow."

"I don't understand," you say weakly. You can't possibly be married to Weiss; you don't remember doing anything of the kind. Besides, he's your friend, the best friend you've got these days but still, nothing more than a friend; plus, you're still in love with Vaughn to the point that you can't even _imagine_ wanting anyone else, which makes the idea doubly ridiculous.

And yet... if it's true, it makes sense of everything that's happened today: Vaughn's resentment, Weiss's familiarity, the rings...

"I told you it was too soon to come back," he says, chafing your hands in his. "You're like ice, Syd. Look at me."

Somehow you tear your eyes away from the floor, and force yourself to meet his gaze. "That's right," he encourages. "Now, where are you?"

You sigh. "The Ops Centre. Eric-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you're okay. You said that the last time, too. Right before you started talking about being dead for two years and coming back to find Vaughn married to some girl named Lauren." The last words are edged with pain, but he keeps his voice low, reassuring. "Syd, the Covenant messed with your head. Whatever you're afraid of, whatever you think is happening, it's not real."

The Covenant. That name, at least, you remember. But if what Weiss is saying is true, if you've just escaped from some kind of Covenant brainwashing scheme (which would certainly explain Dixon's concern, and your father's surprise at seeing you here) then...

_Some girl named Lauren._

If _Weiss_ hasn't heard of her, and he's Vaughn's best friend, then -

Vaughn _didn't_ break up with his wife. He didn't need to. Because he's never even met her in the first place, let alone worn her ring.

_He isn't married!_ your heart sings out. __Michael isn't married!__

_Maybe not,_ says your mind coldly, _but you are._

"Look," says Weiss, putting an arm around your shoulders. "They worked on you for two solid weeks before we found you: it's going to take more than a couple of days for you to get your head together. Let me take you home."

Home.

The word leaves a cold lump in your stomach. "I can't. I have to know- I have to find out-"

"Whatever you want to know, I'll tell you." His voice is gentle, but not in the least patronizing. "We'll talk this through. Just - not here, okay?"

As usual, what Weiss says makes good practical sense. And if you really are his wife _(are you? Really?)_, there's no reason you shouldn't want to take him up on the offer. Especially since you're not likely to get a better one.

"All right," you say at last, swallowing back your misgivings. "Take me home."


	2. Part Two

It's the same apartment you walked out of this morning, in exactly the same state you left it. That, at least, is reassuring. It disturbs you, however, to realize that when you got up this morning one of Weiss's black dress socks was lying in plain view on the floor beside the bed, and you never even noticed that it wasn't yours.

You also didn't notice the shaving cream in the bathroom cabinet, or the suits hanging on the other side of your closet, or a hundred other little things that should have told you a man was living there. Nor did it occur to you that the reason your bed was twice as messy as usual was because two people had been sleeping in it _(but I didn't sleep,_ your mind protests, _I'm sure I didn't)_, since Weiss had already left for work.

There's no excuse for you not noticing at least some of those things - in fact, under ordinary circumstances you'd have spotted every one of them. But this morning, despite all your training and experience, you saw only what you expected to see.

What did the Covenant do to you?

Weiss is in the kitchen, making coffee. You splash your face in the bathroom sink, dry your eyes on the still-damp towel you used this morning, and change out of your work clothes into a tank top and yoga pants. And all the while you're thinking, _how long can I keep this up before he notices something's wrong?_

You are not in love with Weiss (and right now you don't know how you ever could have been, especially with Michael around and - you still can't believe it - unmarried). Still, he's a great guy, loyal and funny and unselfish, and with Will and Francie gone he's the closest thing to a best friend you've got. Hurting him is the last thing you want to do.

But if you're going to try _not_ to hurt him...

Taking a deep breath, you walk out of the bathroom, toss your suit jacket and skirt over the end of the still-unmade bed, and follow the smell of the coffee to where Weiss sits at the kitchen counter, pouring you a cup. He doesn't need to ask how you like it, and you find that fresh confirmation of just how well he knows you unsettling. Still, when he passes the coffee across to you, you take it with a smile, determined to betray nothing of the turmoil you feel. "Thanks."

"Uh-huh," he says, looking skeptical. "Nice try, Syd. Come on, out with it."

Your heart sinks. He knows you _that_ well? "With what?"

"I know that look. It says, 'Hi, I'm shiny happy Sydney and I've got a brick on my conscience but you're not supposed to notice.' Well, too bad, I _do_ notice. So-" He makes a gambler's "hit me" gesture.

Part of you wants to give up right then and there, forget the whole mad scheme and just confess that not only do you not remember marrying him, you don't even remember why you wanted to, and until your memory comes back, would he mind sleeping on the couch? But you can't do that, not until you know for sure that you can't lie to him and make him believe you.

You cover your dismay by taking a sip of coffee, then set the mug down and say quietly, "I scared you back there, I know, reacting the way I did. I'm sorry. I thought - for a moment, I thought you were - somebody I didn't want - kissing me."

It's not quite the truth, but it's close enough to pass. He sits back, and you see the relief in his eyes. "It's okay. The psychiatrist said you'd probably have some flashbacks, memory lapses, maybe even a few panic attacks before your mind adjusted to reality. At least this one wasn't as bad as the first, right after we pulled you out - that one was a doozy." He stirs his coffee slowly. "The last two years of your life, _poof,_ gone - for a while you didn't even remember marrying me."

If there were any doubt left in your mind that you can't tell him the truth, that settles it. He speaks simply, without obvious emotion - he's even smiling a little, as though to reassure you that the incident was too funny to be seriously upsetting. And yet there's tension in the line of his shoulders, and behind the humor in his eyes is a silent plea, _Don't ever scare me like that again._

You don't dare ask him, now, all the questions that have been torturing you. For his sake, you can't let him guess how little you remember. There's only one thing you can do to make this right, and you do it without hesitation: you push your coffee cup aside, lean over the counter, and kiss him.

It's a desperate sort of kiss, full of shame and apologies and the dregs of the loneliness you've been carrying around ever since you found out Vaughn was married _(but he's not married, that was just a bad dream - or is this the dream?)_. Weiss kisses you back with equal urgency, holding your face between his hands as though afraid you'll vanish if he lets you go, and you realize with a shiver of apprehension where this is leading, but it's too late to pull away now.

"I missed you so much," he whispers huskily, and you close your eyes in pain because the words are the ones you've longed to hear but the voice saying them is wrong, so wrong. He brushes his lips down your neck, kisses the hollow of your throat, and you are just wondering hysterically whether he plans to flip you over onto the counter and make love to you right then and there, when the phone rings and startles you both apart.

"I'll get it," you say breathlessly, picking up the receiver and turning away so that he won't notice your relief. "Hello?"

"Sydney."

"It's my Dad," you mouth to Weiss, who nods, picks up his coffee mug, and heads off to the living room to give you some privacy. "Hi," you say to the other end of the phone. "Is everything okay?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Dixon told me Eric took you home: are you feeling all right?"

Under the circumstances it shouldn't surprise you that Weiss and your father would be on a first-name basis, but somehow it does. After all, even when he knew you and Michael were lovers, he still called him_ Vaughn..._ but then, so did you. "I had another memory lapse. Just a short one, I'm all right now. Where do you want to meet?"

He hasn't asked you to meet him anywhere, of course; but he understands, and responds without hesitation. "The hot dog stand in the park. Half an hour."

You don't need to ask which hot dog stand, or which park. "I'll be there." You turn off the receiver, resisting the urge to hug it, and put the phone down. "Dad wants to meet me for lunch."

Weiss looks back at you over the top of the sofa. "Want me to take you? I've got to pick up a couple of things anyway."

You're about to say no, when you realize that you might have another memory lapse, and it's probably safer if you let him drive. Plus, it'll lend at least some credence to the illusion that you have nothing to hide. "Sure. Thanks."

"Okay," he says, and bounces up to get his coat.

x

Twenty-five minutes later, you wave a hurried goodbye to Weiss, cross the sidewalk, dodge a crowd of teenagers wielding loaded hot dogs, and sit down on the wooden bench beside your father. His hands are empty, and he shows no sign of wanting to join the lineup at the stand, but you weren't hungry anyway. "Thanks for coming," you say.

"Any time." He turns and looks at you intently, eyes scanning your face for clues. Once, you found his analytical approach to life infuriating; now you've come to depend on it. "What do you need?"

This is hard. But there's no one else you can turn to. "Dad... I don't remember what the Covenant did to me. I don't remember who found me, or when, or where."

He nods, his expression unchanging, as though he had expected it. "You experienced some very intense mental conditioning by the Covenant. You're well trained to resist brainwashing, and they didn't manage to break you, but it's not surprising that there would still be some residual effects."

"I know. But it's worse than that. Much worse. I don't remember anything from the time I fought Francie's double in my old apartment, to when I got up this morning. Well, I do remember some things, but - they're all wrong."

His face goes very still, his eyes narrowing as he registers what you've just said, sifts through all the possible layers of meaning, and considers the implications. At last he says, "Tell me what you think you remember."

Slowly, haltingly, you tell him everything: about your two lost years, Vaughn's marriage and Sloane's pardon, the exchange that put Sark into the hands of the Covenant, the Lazarey case with all its terrifying implications... and any minute you're sure he's going to stop you and tell you it's all nonsense, but he doesn't. He simply listens.

"Interesting," he says, when the story is finished, gazing off into the distance while he digests the information you've given him. "Obviously the Covenant believed they had something to gain by mixing fiction with reality and implanting you with a false set of memories, but what was their objective? The whole scheme seems unnecessarily complicated."

"Maybe it wasn't their idea," you say. "Maybe it was a nightmare I had while they were conditioning me. Maybe it was my brain's way of resisting whatever ideas they were trying to plant in my mind, coming up with an alternate reality of its own. I don't know. But Dad-"

The desperation in your tone snaps him out of his reverie, and he looks back at you, a question in his eyes.

"I need you to tell me - everything I missed. Help me remember what's real."

Jack Bristow isn't usually demonstrative, but he puts his hand over yours and squeezes it. Then, in the voice he uses for official briefings, the brisk dispassionate tone that guarantees you'll hear and remember every detail, he begins to tell you about the last two years of your life.

In this reality, the true one, you were never missing. The CIA found you in the wreckage of your old apartment, and you spent three days in hospital. As before, Will survived, and went into witness protection as soon as he was well enough to relocate. But no trace of Francie's double, dead or alive, was ever found.

Arvin Sloane is still in CIA custody, and has not yet received a pardon, though the amount of valuable intelligence he's provided makes it more and more likely that he will be granted freedom in time. Your mother is still a fugitive, but she's been keeping a low profile and the CIA has been concentrating on other matters of more immediate concern. Sark was extracted while en route to high-security prison eighteen months ago; most believe that to have been the work of the Covenant, though Jack suspects your mother.

And Vaughn, as you guessed already, was never married.

"After your apartment was destroyed," says your father, "you moved in with Vaughn. Three months later, you told me you were engaged."

Your breath stops, and you feel the blood hammering through your heart. Michael asked you to marry him? And you said yes? _(Of course you said yes, you'd say yes if he asked you right now, you know that. Except for that little complication of already being married to the wrong man.)_ "Then- why aren't we-?"

"Because six weeks after that, you gave him back his ring and moved out."

You feel as though you've just had your guts ripped out with a hook. "No. That can't- I wouldn't ever-"

"Sydney." His voice is level, his eyes equally steady, willing you to be strong. "You never told me why you broke your engagement to Vaughn, and I don't have enough information to hypothesize. All I know is that it happened, and that you believed it was for the best."

"Was I..." You still can't imagine it. "Was I unhappy? When it ended?"

"For a time, yes. As was Vaughn. You both tried not to let it interfere with your professional duties, but in the end Vaughn decided it wasn't working and took a six-month transfer to Langley. Eric was reassigned as your partner, temporarily at first, but you worked so well together that Dixon decided to make it permanent."

"So when did we... when did I start dating Weiss?"

"I don't know. After he helped you find your new apartment - which, understandably, caused some tension between him and Vaughn - it seemed as though every time I called you, he was there. Nevertheless, at that time you obviously regarded him only as a friend. Once Vaughn left and the two of you were partnered, however, the relationship progressed quite rapidly. It was only a few weeks after Vaughn returned from Langley that you told me you and Eric were planning to be married... and three months later, I walked you down the aisle." The corners of his mouth curl a little, reminiscently. "You had a surprise guest at the wedding, by the way... although I didn't tell you that until afterward."

Your jaw drops. "Mom?"

"Oh, yes. It was an excellent disguise, managed quite cleverly. No one recognized her except me... and even I might not have known to take a second look, if she hadn't been crying."

With happiness? you wonder. Or regret? She'd seemed to like Vaughn very much, in spite of - or perhaps because of - the dark history between them; you find it hard to believe she'd have felt the same way about ordinary, uncomplicated Weiss.

"Eric Weiss is a good man, Sydney." Your father speaks quietly, but there's no mistaking the emphasis in his tone. "When you chose him, I believed - and I still believe - that it was one of the best decisions you've ever made."

A good man.

Not just a man, but a good one, in your father's eyes. You can't help but contrast those words with something else your father told you, even if only in a dream: __"Michael Vaughn is just a boy who was never good enough for you."__

_But you never understood Vaughn, Daddy,_ your mind protests. _You never really gave him a chance. You never knew him like I do..._

Still, you know better than to voice your objections. You're a married woman, and regardless of what tricks your mind and your memory might be playing at the moment, Vaughn is no longer a legitimate part of your life.

"Thanks," you say at last, looking down at your hands. The ring finger on your left hand is smooth and unmarked, just as it ought to be - in your line of work, with all its deception and disguise, the illusion of availability is too important an advantage to lose.

But it is, you remind yourself, only an illusion.

"Eric will be here in a minute," you say, getting up from the bench, blinking back the tears that threaten to fill your eyes. "I'd better go."

"Yes. Call me when you need more information. And when you come back to work I'll stay close, and do what I can to keep you from making any false steps. But Sydney-"

You don't dare look at your father. "Uh-huh?" you say distractedly, shielding your eyes with your hand as you peer into the distance, back toward the street.

"Give Weiss a chance," he says. "Give yourself a chance. What you and Vaughn felt... I know how dangerously compelling that kind of passion can be. But it doesn't last, Sydney. And even if it did, it's no substitute for things like honesty. And loyalty. And trust."

The lump in your throat chokes you; you can't speak. All you can do is nod, and smile as though you believe him, before you turn and walk away.


	3. Part Three

Over the next few days, you try to get your memories back. You really do. You pull as many of your old case files as you can get your hands on, and pore through each briefing and debriefing until you can practically recite them backwards. You look through all the photo albums in your apartment, searching each unfamiliar picture for clues about where you were, what you were doing, how you felt at the time. And every chance you get, you bombard your father with questions about your breakup with Vaughn and your relationship with Weiss, hoping he'll remember something, anything, that might explain why you married one and not the other.

Still, no matter how hard you try to understand her, to remember what it was like to be her, the Sydney in those files, those pictures, those anecdotes, remains a stranger to you.

In the end, frustrated and exhausted by the intensity of your efforts, you tell yourself that it doesn't matter whether your memory ever returns. Either way, your duty to Weiss and to your own conscience is the same. And under any other circumstances, that sense of duty would be enough.

But you can't shut off the feelings you have for Vaughn, even knowing that he probably hates you. If only you knew why you left him, what went wrong... but you still don't know. You can't even begin to guess. All you know is that whenever he walks into a meeting with you or crosses your path in the Ops Center, your eyes and your heart follow him.

As for Weiss, you put him off as long as you can, feigning stomach cramps one night, pretending to fall asleep before he comes to bed the next. The following day you report to Dixon and discreetly maneuver him into giving you a solo courier assignment to Berlin. That gives you a couple more days' reprieve. But in the end you find yourself standing back at the door of your apartment, key in one hand and suitcase in the other, nauseous with apprehension. For a moment you dared to hope that Eric might not be home: but through the door you can hear the muffled sounds of Monday Night Football. He's there. He's waiting for you. And you can't keep him waiting any longer.

You take a deep breath, and paste on your brightest smile. Then you open the door and say, "Hi!"

Weiss looks up at the sound of your voice, and breaks into an equally incandescent grin. "Hey, hey, it's my girl!" He swings his feet off the couch, scattering pretzels everywhere, and leaps up to envelop you in a bear hug. In spite of your dread, you have to admit it feels good to be so enthusiastically welcomed.

"Who's playing?" you ask when he lets you go, nodding toward the TV.

"Who cares?" he says, with a feral grin that makes your heart jump in an unexpected direction, and thumbs the remote. The screen goes dark, like the place behind your eyelids as he kisses you, and your keys fall clattering to the floor.

His hands -

_Michael's hands. Pretend they're Michael's._

His lips -

He knows how to kiss you, and you won't deny he makes you feel something when he does it. But he's not Vaughn. And you don't want anyone but Vaughn.

_I can't do this -_

And yet, somehow, you do.

Not even in the service of your country have you sold yourself so completely. No matter how long you had to drag out the seduction or how many distractions you had to manufacture along the way, you always managed to keep your enemies from possessing you, and escaped from their embraces just in time.

But Weiss is not your enemy.

And tonight, there is no escape.

x

Walking into the rotunda the next morning, you feel like you're wearing a scarlet letter. Except it can't be an A, because you and Eric are married, and you and Vaughn never were. The only alternative you can think of is W, and it _doesn't_ stand for "Weiss".

Logically, there's no reason you should feel ashamed, or guilty: after all, you did it for Eric's sake. Eric, who loves you and has pledged his life to you, and deserves every kind of intimacy you can give him. By the same logic, you owe nothing to Vaughn, who is merely a former lover, and a hostile one at that. But the ugly truth is that the only way you could bring yourself to make love to Weiss was by pretending he was Vaughn, and when it was over you felt like you'd betrayed them both.

For once, you're glad that Vaughn doesn't look at you. You can't bear to look at him, either.

Halfway through the morning you head down to the commissary in search of fresh coffee (you've started taking it black, as penance), and on the way back you bump into somebody coming out of a side corridor and spill half of it over his shiny brown Oxfords.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see-"

Silence. You look up, the styrofoam cup in one hand and its defective lid in the other, and meet Vaughn's resigned, sea-green gaze.

"I deserved that," he says.

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. "You _deserve_ hot coffee on your shoes? Do I even want to know what you think you did wrong?"

His mouth twists in a bleak smile. "Yeah, I think you do. Look, Syd - I owe you an apology, and I guess now is a good enough time to say it. I shouldn't have snapped at you last week."

You stare at him, a rivulet of coffee leaking over your thumb and dripping, unheeded, to the floor. He goes on:

"I should have known you weren't gloating - that's not like you. If I'd known what the Covenant did to you, the way they confused your memories, I would have guessed right away something was wrong. But I was in Montserrat when they found you, and-"

"Wait a minute." You switch the cup to your other hand, and surreptitiously wipe your fingers on the lining of your jacket. "Who told you I was confused? And what did they say?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell you that."

It can't be your father: he wouldn't betray your trust, especially not to Vaughn. It wouldn't have been Weiss, surely. It must have been Dixon. Or another member of the team that found you. Somebody who heard you talking about Lauren.

"Fine," you say, folding your arms and averting your gaze from his. "I was confused, and I didn't know what I said would upset you. Still, I should have apologized later. And I didn't. So... I'm sorry, too."

"It's okay."

Another, uncomfortable silence. "Well," you say finally, "I'd better get going," and turn to leave.

He catches your arm. "Syd."

Automatically you stop, looking down at the fingers wrapped around your elbow. His hand is warm on your skin, his touch light but possessive, just the way you remember it, and you feel a familiar ache beneath your ribcage.

"Can we - try to make this work?" he says. "I know it's never going to be like it was between us, but... we should at least be able to talk to each other."

Hearing those words, your mouth bends in a radiant, incredulous smile. "Yeah," you manage to reply, when your voice finally decides to cooperate. "I'd like that."

You stand looking at each other for a long moment, and then a voice from behind you says, "Uh... am I interrupting something here? Because if I am, then I could go away, and - 'cause, you know, if it's like, _mrow, ffft_ -"

You turn, to see Marshall making exaggerated scratching gestures in the middle of the corridor. At the incredulous look on your face he stops and grins sheepishly. "Well, you know - maybe not a _catfight,_ exactly, seeing as Vaughn is - um, do you want me to come back later?"

"It's fine, Marshall," says Vaughn, with a touch of impatience. "We were finished talking anyway. See you later, Syd." He sidles past you, his shoulder barely brushing yours, and walks away down the corridor.

You stand watching him, light-headed with surprise and renewed hope, until Marshall clears his throat. Then you realize where you are, and turning back you say with more calm than you feel, "What can I do for you?"

"I need you to come and try on - it's really neat, wait until you see it -" He leads you back toward his office, babbling technological gobbledygook and random factoids as he goes, and you follow willingly enough. But all the while your heart exults, _He doesn't hate me. Vaughn doesn't hate me!_

And knowing that, it's just a little more difficult to go on hating yourself.


	4. Part Four

The next day, Dixon sends you and Weiss to Geneva, to meet a deep-cover CIA agent inside the Covenant who claims to have some important intel about their plans. It's the usual routine - a sexy disguise (a wig of tumbled blonde curls and a skin-tight silver dress, which earns you a wolf-whistle and a thumbs-up from your husband), some hot tech from Marshall (in this case, a powder compact that disrupts electronic signals), and a timetable that leaves no margin for error.

It's an exclusive party for Covenant members and their allies both present and potential, and security is tight. If you're not smoking a cigarette by the champagne fountain at precisely 11:21 p.m., the plan will be aborted. And there's no Plan B, either - just setting up this meeting was risky enough for your contact, and he can't afford to awaken any more suspicion.

"Here we go again," you murmur as Weiss, smartly dressed in his chauffeur's uniform, drives you up to the entrance of the hotel.

"Yeah, yeah. You live for this. Go get 'em, Syd." He grins at you in the rear view mirror, and you smile back. Then he slides out from behind the wheel, opens your door with an appropriate show of deference, and you're on.

Your heels are high, your legs are long, your dress leaves little to the imagination, and your purse is obviously too tiny to hold a gun. Unfortunately, there's a woman in charge of security tonight, and she insists on searching your purse anyway. No matter: you pass. Meanwhile, the burly man checking invitations at the door is so bedazzled he barely glances at the card you pull out of the low neckline of your dress, which is a good thing because it's only a vague facsimile.

The clock in your head, which is perfectly synchronized to Weiss's watch, tells you it's 11:20. You do your patented catwalk strut through the crowd to the appropriate corner of the room, turn your back on the assemblage just long enough to powder your nose (and activate the signal-jamming device), then light up a cigarette and wait.

Exactly one minute later a hawk-faced man with thinning blond hair stops by the table for a fresh glass of champagne. "This is a no-smoking area," he says in a disapproving tone. You blow a smoke ring at him, insolently, and tell him in French what he can do with himself. He grimaces and turns away, picking up the glass as though to leave, and then you hear him mutter:

"Jakarta. The 17th, 2300 hours, Tanamur Nightclub. Bio-weapons deal with Jemaah Islamiyah. Details on the chip."

Jemaah Islamiyah is an Indonesian terrorist organization with ties to al-Qaeda - no wonder your contact thought this meeting worth the risk. You look down, and see something tiny glittering beneath a napkin on the table. With a disdainful toss of your blonde wig you turn your back on him and palm it, picking up a champagne flute at the same time to cover the motion.

"Good luck," he says, and walks away.

You wait a discreet few minutes, long enough to finish your horrible-tasting cigarette and be rude to two more people, and then sashay out onto the balcony. Five floors below, you can see Weiss lounging against the side of the limousine, all broad shoulders and long legs. Objectively, you have to admit that his build makes him look a little more mature - even more masculine - than Vaughn, though there's only an inch and twenty pounds' worth of difference between them.

Too bad you've always preferred the boyish type.

A sudden, agitated outbreak of voices from behind you makes you glance back over your shoulder. Through the balcony doors you see the woman from security, the burly man who checked - or rather, didn't check - your invitation, and two other grim-faced men heading toward you with guns drawn.

"Weiss!" you hiss into the wire Marshall threaded through the strap of your gown. "I've been made!"

He doesn't move, and you realize belatedly that the signal-jamming device is still activated. There's no time to turn it off and repeat your warning, so instead you grab the compact out of your purse and fling it onto the pavement at his feet.

It shatters, he jumps, and his face automatically turns up to the balcony where you stand. One look at you, brilliantly lit by the hotel spotlights and making frantic _gotta go right now _gestures, and he knows at once what to do. With the speed and smoothness of long expertise he grabs the grappling hook and rope from beneath the front seat of the limo and shoots it up to you. It catches on the balcony's edge, and not a moment too soon: you grab it and vault over the stone railing just as the first bullet whizzes past your ear.

You burn your hands - and worse, your thighs - on the rope going down, but the adrenaline pumping through your system is stronger than any pain. Both of your three-inch heels break off when you hit the pavement, but you're used to that, and anyway it makes it easier to run around the limo and jump in.

Weiss is right with you: he stomps on the accelerator, wrenches the wheel around, and lays a streak of rubber all the way to the road. You screech out onto the busy street, narrowly missing somebody's blue Volkswagen, and roar off into the night.

"You okay?" Weiss asks, his eyes still intent on the road.

You glance back. Nobody's following you - which is pretty much as you'd expected: they couldn't have guessed you'd make such a fast escape, not with that outfit on. And speaking of which, the silver dress is ripped up both sides nearly to the waist: you won't be wearing _that_ again. For once you find yourself thankful that you and Weiss are married - under other circumstances this would be pretty awkward.

But, you realize as you see the grin tugging at the corners of Weiss's mouth, nothing about tonight has been awkward. There was no jealousy or resentment in his eyes when he watched you get out of the limo; he knew, as you've always known, that you were only playing a part, and that the real Syd wouldn't be caught dead in such an outfit. And even though things tonight didn't go exactly according to plan, he read your cues and worked with you so smoothly, you didn't even need a wire.

You can see, now, why Dixon thought it worth making you a permanent team. For what you do, you need a partner you can absolutely count on, someone who'll back you up without hesitation and not go haring off on his own. And that's Weiss. That's always been Weiss.

"Yeah," you say, smiling back at him. "I'm great."

x

You didn't consciously plan it that way, but your rope burns end up earning you another reprieve. Except that after a few minutes lying spread-eagled on the safe-house bed with Eric's warm fingers gently smearing ointment up your thighs, you're not so sure you _want_ to be let off the hook. Especially when he finishes the job with a kiss that leaves a smudge of white on the end of his nose, and another of those wolfish grins.

Still, he's too sensible, and kind, to expect anything out of you in your injured state. And half an hour later you lie beside him in the darkness with your gauze-wrapped hands folded awkwardly across your chest, asking yourself, _When did I start falling in love with Eric Weiss?_

You mean the other Sydney, of course, the Sydney you don't remember being. Did it happen on a mission like this, when you realized that the best partner you'd ever had might be the only partner you ever needed? Or did it happen at your apartment, over tequila and old regrets? Was it the night he drove you home, when your loneliness became so unbearable that you threw yourself into his arms - and he _didn't_ take advantage of your impulsive, foolish offer?

_Now wait a second,_ your mind protests, _that never -_

But you fall asleep before you can finish the thought.


	5. Part Five

Funny how in Geneva things seemed so much clearer, the possibility of loving Weiss so much easier to understand. When you get home, and he falls into a dead sleep on the sofa before you're even finished unpacking, your relief feels curiously like disappointment.

When you return to the Ops Center the next day, however, it's different. All it takes is meeting Vaughn's gaze across the conference room, seeing his eyes crease in a smile, and your heart spins toward him like a compass needle. You'd like to despise yourself for being so fickle, except you know that's not really the problem: the truth is you aren't fickle _enough_, or you'd be able to let Vaughn go.

Still, as the days pass, you realize you can't keep living this way indefinitely. You're watching Vaughn far too much, for far too long, and the blood rises to your skin every time he returns your gaze - which he also does more often than he should. And while Weiss still smiles at you with the same warmth and kisses you with the same ardor as before, he's been keeping his distance in bed, as though he senses your reluctance. This can't go on. Something has to give.

And it does, even sooner than you expected. Two days later, you're walking down the corridor toward Dixon's office when Vaughn's arm appears out of nowhere and yanks you back into the filing room. He shuts the door behind you with more than usual force, turns to you with a set jaw and fiercely intent eyes, and says, "All right, Syd, enough. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Ever since you escaped from the Covenant, you've been looking at me like-"

All at once he stops, and his face becomes very still, as though he's just received a revelation. You open your mouth to forestall him, but he holds up a hand: _Wait. I'm thinking._ "The Covenant," he says slowly. "They took your memories..."

_Oh, no. No, Vaughn, please don't..._

But the pieces of the puzzle are already there, just waiting to be put together, and Vaughn is an intelligent man. If he didn't know how to spot clues, analyze evidence and draw quick and accurate conclusions, he wouldn't be in this job.

"...all your memories of the past two years... including our breakup, and your marriage to Weiss..."

This shouldn't be happening. You don't want it to be happening. And yet, you have only yourself to blame. You shouldn't have allowed him to see what you were feeling. You shouldn't have allowed yourself to feel it in the first place.

_Stop now,_ you beg him silently._ Leave it unsaid. Let me walk out of this room, and I swear I'll never look at you that way again..._

"...and you _never got them back_."

There's no anger in his eyes now, only an agonized comprehension. "It's true, isn't it? That's why you've been watching me. Because in your mind... we're still together."

The sound of the truth, so simply and so plainly spoken, is more than you can bear. You can't bring yourself to answer, either to confirm or to deny: all you can do is bow your head and turn your face away.

"Oh, Syd." His voice softens, and he takes a step toward you. For a moment you stand motionless, struggling against the yearning inside, but then his hands close on your shoulders and it's suddenly too much: you fall into his arms, bury your face in his chest and burst into desperate, guilty, hopeless tears.

A moment later he says, his mouth muffled against your hair, "Does Weiss know?"

You're still too choked up to speak; you can only shake your head. Vaughn's embrace tightens, and he murmurs, "It's okay. Don't blame yourself. You haven't done anything wrong."

More than anything, you want those words - all of them - to be true. But deep down, you know better. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have given yourself away. But then, you shouldn't have to choose between your conscience and your heart, and yet that's exactly what this intolerable situation is forcing you to do.

If only you knew how to do it.

"I can help you," says Vaughn in a low voice. "Let me help you." He takes your face between his hands, looking deeply into your eyes. "There's got to be a way out of this - not just for you and me, but for Weiss too. It's not fair to him, Syd-"

"You can't tell him," you whisper. "Promise you won't tell him. If - when - he has to hear it, he deserves to hear it from me."

Vaughn nods soberly, his gaze full of understanding. "I promise."

He's so near to you now, so tantalizingly near. You can smell his cologne, see the light stubble along his jawline, recognize every familiar curve and crease of his lips. And at this moment it's an agonizing effort of your will, every bit as hard as it was for you to step through the door of your apartment a few days ago, to keep from kissing him.

Instead you take a step back, your hands sliding from his shoulders, and say hoarsely, "Thanks."

"Let's meet somewhere," he urges. "After hours, so we can talk this out, come up with a plan. What about Tito's Diner?"

It's a prudent choice, you have to admit: a brightly lit, window-lined restaurant facing onto a busy street, with an atmosphere that's hardly likely to encourage thoughts of romance. Not that either of you needs any encouragement. "Okay," you tell him, feeling your stomach tighten with mingled apprehension and anticipation. "But it'll have to be next week."

He grimaces. "Right. Jakarta. I forgot. Then let's say Tuesday... nine o'clock?"

"Okay."

A long pause, while you look at each other. "I'd better go," you say at last, brush the tears from your cheeks, and turn to leave.

"Syd."

You know that soft, broken tone: it means he's about to say something he shouldn't. "Don't -" you begin, but it's too late.

"I've never stopped loving you," he says.

You don't dare look back. And your throat's too tight to speak, even if you had the words. So in the end you simply bow your head in a gesture of - acceptance? Defeat? Sorrow? Shame? Maybe all of them together, but your heart's too sore and your mind too battered by confusion to tell.

Then you open the door and walk away.

x

The Tanamur nightclub, like the rest of Jakarta, is hot, steamy and hazy with smoke. Dancers of both sexes, and some of indeterminate gender, undulate on raised platforms to the sounds of Asian dance music. After midnight the place will be packed, but right now it's just starting to fill up, and you're able to move freely through the crowd as you look around for your target.

"Figures you'd be ahead of me already," says a familiar, wry voice in your ear, just audible above the pounding bass and drums. "In spite of being interrupted by... how many propositions so far?"

You pause and glance over at the far side of the room, your gaze passing over Weiss with apparent indifference, and lay three fingers against your chin.

"Oh, well, if it's only three, then no wonder. I've had five, and I have no idea what language half of them were in."

Your eyebrows shoot up. _Five?_

"Hey, when you're hot, you're hot," he says, and you can hear his grin. "Nah, only one actually, and I think she just wanted to know if I needed a drink. Though there's this gorgeous brunette in a red sarong who keeps eyeing me across the room... think she likes me?"

_Oh, she likes you all right,_ you can't help thinking, with a twinge of guilt. _She just happens to be in love with somebody else._

"I bet she'd like me if she got to know me," Weiss continues, oblivious. "Not only do I know a lot of great yo-yo tricks, I make an awesome brisket."

All this while you've been scanning the crowd, looking for a man with a wide nose, thick mustache and heavy jowls - a Mr. Hamdani, according to the microchip you picked up in Geneva. Wherever he may be, you and Weiss have five minutes to find him before this deal goes down.

Fortunately, it only takes you two minutes. "Found him," you murmur through your wire to Weiss, who's still working his way along the other side of the room. "Ten o'clock."

"Got it," he says tersely, all humor banished, and a moment later he's navigating his way across the dance floor toward Hamdani's table, with a hardness in his eyes you've never seen before. Pretending interest in the dancers, you watch him covertly as he pulls out a chair opposite the Jemaah Islamiyah man and sits down, looking every inch the cool, ruthless Covenant agent.

"Good evening, Mr. Hamdani," he says. "I know we haven't met, but I believe we have some... mutual friends."

The voice in which he delivers those words is lower and more clipped-sounding than usual: not quite a European accent, but a Europeanized American one. It's also, you can't help noticing, quite unfairly sexy.

Hamdani responds to Weiss's introduction with what sounds like a cautious welcome, though you can't make out the exact words. No matter: you don't need to. Your job right now is to find the real Covenant agent, whoever he is. If all goes well, Weiss will take Hamdani out the back door with him in a minute or two, and you'll be free to take Hamdani's place at the table. Your deep-cover CIA ally within the Covenant should have laid the groundwork for everything that comes next.

Then you spot him: a slim, blond figure emerging from the haze near the front of the club. He's dressed in a dark green shirt under a cream linen suit, and at first glance he looks like just one of a hundred other foreign businessman out for a night on the town, but there's no mistaking the line of those shoulders, or that lithe, arrogant stride.

"We're in trouble," you breathe to Weiss. "It's Sark."

Casually, Weiss reaches up and touches his earlobe. _I hear you._ "Mr. Hamdani," he says, "May I suggest we take our conversation outside?"

As far as you can tell, Sark hasn't even spotted you yet, let alone Hamdani. Nevertheless, you can't afford to take chances before Weiss and the Jemaah Islamiyah man are safely out the door, so you turn and begin sidling your way back through the sweaty, gyrating crowd.

By the time you're twenty feet away, he's noticed you. His eyebrows rise, his mouth quirks, and he moves with sudden purpose in your direction. Moving as quickly as the thickening crowd allows, you lead him across the dance floor, the music pounding through your bones, then along the far wall to the bar, where you order the first drink that comes to mind. You're just taking your first sip of vodka when he catches up to you.

"An unexpected pleasure," he says, raising his voice above the din. "And since it is now past eleven o'clock, allow me to congratulate you on reaching Mr. Hamdani before I did. However, I think you may find that particular victory rather hollow. I am not working for the Covenant, any more than you are."

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, and take another sip.

"In fact," Sark continues, unfazed, "you will doubtless be pleased to learn that the man who _was_ sent here in that capacity has been... incapacitated."

Whether that's true or not, it hardly matters. With Weiss and the Jemaah Islamiyah man out of the building, any Covenant agent who comes looking for Hamdani is sure to be disappointed. And your backup team, parked at the end of the alley behind the nightclub, will give Weiss all the help and protection he needs.

All you have to do, therefore, is keep Sark distracted until the deal is done. And given his present mood, that shouldn't be difficult. You pause a moment, as though considering his last remark, then put your drink down and turn to face him. "How thoughtful of you. So what brings you here?"

He smiles. "What would you say if I told you it was you?"

"I'd say you're a liar."

He makes a small, amused sound, but doesn't argue the point. Instead, with casual insolence, he reaches for your vodka. You grab his wrist and pin it, then say tightly, "Enough games, Sark. Why are you here?"

"The same reason you are, of course," he says, his voice still untroubled. "To trade a worthless counterfeit of a bio-weapon for a very genuine five million dollars. You needn't be so hostile, Sydney. I have no quarrel with you... this time."

His blue eyes open wide as he speaks, with an innocence you know is feigned; but at the same time, there's no good reason to believe what he's telling you is anything less than the truth. Slowly, grudgingly, you release his hand.

"Thank you," he says, then picks up your vodka and drinks. You're still regarding him with a mixture of fury and disgust when he puts it back down and continues in the same conversational tone, "I heard you married your partner, a few months ago. Weiss, I believe, was his name?"

You say nothing.

"I have to admit, I was surprised. It didn't seem like you."

Against your better judgment, you look sideways at him. He folds his arms across the bar and leans closer, lowering his voice as he confides:

"I mean, think of it, Sydney. You could have had red wine and chocolate, or champagne and caviar... and you chose beer and pretzels."

The words are lightly spoken, but they hit you like a backhanded slap. Until now you've repressed the worst of your misgivings, too ashamed to admit to yourself what you were really thinking. But Sark... it's like he reached straight into your heart, ripped out the truth and showed it to you, pulsing and bleeding, on the palm of his hand. And you hate him for it.

No. You hate _yourself_ for it.

You try to speak coldly, but you can't keep the shake of anger out of your voice. "Maybe I did. Or maybe you're not as good a judge of character as you think." You take a step back, away from him. "This conversation is over. But by all means, keep the vodka. You might as well get _something_ out of this trip."

You turn to leave then, but his voice floats back to you, light and confident: "Oh, don't worry. I expect the results of tonight's work to be... quite satisfactory."

It takes you a second to register the meaning of his words; then ice drops into the pit of your stomach, and your eyes go wide. Of course Sark wouldn't plan an operation like this without backup, any more than you and Weiss did. Which means...

With sudden, desperate urgency you start to shove your way through the crowd toward the back of the nightclub, heading for the door. Ripping it open, you fling yourself through it and sprint down the fetid, garbage-clotted alleyway toward the road, ears ringing with the absence of sound, all the while looking wildly for a familiar black van...

It's there, lying on its side in the middle of the street, flames licking the edges of the yawning hole in its belly where your communications center and backup unit used to be. There's no sign of any survivors.

Sick with grief and dread, you rip out your useless earpiece and stand there a moment, staring blindly at the wreckage. Then you turn around and run the other way down the alley, shouting "Weiss? _Weiss!"_

You almost trip over his body before you see it, lying face-down in a puddle of some dark, sticky stuff, the smashed and empty briefcase a few feet away. Half-sobbing, you drop to your knees beside him and fumble for a pulse.

It's there, beating steadily beneath the warm skin of his neck. You run your hands over his scalp and find an impressive lump, but the skull beneath is intact. The blood on the ground, if it's blood at all, isn't his.

Relief, painful in its intensity, rushes over you, sorrow and shame following closely in its wake. You slide your arms under Eric's limp body and cradle his head against your breast, silently crying out, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..._


	6. Part Six

"The rum," says Weiss mournfully, upending the bottle, "is gone."

He delivers the line like it's the beginning of an in-joke, and if so, you've missed your cue. But right now you're too numb to care.

When you sat down on the floor half an hour ago and opened the only bottle of liquor the Jakarta safe house had to offer, it was to offer a toast to fallen comrades. Weiss and his ice pack joined you, and at some point within the next few minutes you'd reached an unspoken agreement to get very, very drunk.

Well, at least _that_ goal has been achieved.

You look up blearily at Weiss, thinking how sad it is, how unfair, that he's not as pretty as Vaughn. Or Sark, for that matter. But then again, if he were, would it make your decision any easier?

Probably not. You wriggle a little closer to him, moving your head into a more comfortable position against his thigh. "Beer and pretzels," you mumble to yourself. "Now that's just _mean."_

"I like beer and pretzels," says Weiss, sounding faintly affronted. "Whatsa matter with beer n' pretzels?"

You let out a snort of a giggle. "You're drunk."

"Oh, yeah, like you're not. In fact, I bet you're drunker."

He's probably right, at that. You look down at your hands, fascinated by the way the fingers wobble and blur together. "Well," you muse aloud, "even if Sark's associate blew your cover with Hamdani and took your place, it's still a fake bio-weapon that got traded in the end, right? That's something."

"Sure it is. I mean, what's a paltry five million between good enemies?"

"Million, schmillion," you say, and giggle again.

Weiss regards you with owlish gravity. "Not just drunk, but goofy. Time you went to bed."

"Mmm..." You turn over, propping yourself up on your elbows and smiling at him through the haze. "Come with me."

"Now I _know_ you're drunk. Sorry, Syd, not tonight. I have a headache this big -" He gestures with his ice pack - "and it's got Sark written all over it."

"Me, too," you say sadly, and let him pull you up to your feet.

Headache or not, he still falls asleep before you do. And as sobriety sneaks back into your awareness, bringing with it the unwelcome recollection of the choice you must make (have already made, really - it's just a matter of finding the courage to tell him so), you find yourself crawling, childlike, into the warmth of Weiss's embrace and laying your cheek against his heart. It feels good to be in his arms, you can admit that much to yourself now; you feel comfortable there, protected and safe. Almost - despite the turmoil within you and the fact that he's snoring in your ear - at peace.

_Forgive me,_ you whisper to him silently. _Please don't hate me._

But once you've told him the truth, you know that may be too much to ask.

x

At first it seems as though Tuesday night will never arrive, and yet when it comes, it's too soon. You've sleepwalked through the past two days of debriefings and paperwork, mentally detached from your world and everyone in it - not just your co-workers, but Vaughn, Weiss, even your father. After all, this is your life, your decision, and you're going to have to deal with the consequences. No one else, no matter how much they may love you, can change that.

When Weiss stops by your desk at the end of the day, you explain with forced casualness that you're planning to meet your father for a late dinner, to discuss the possibility that your mother was behind Sark's appearance in Jakarta. No need to wait up for you; you'll see him tomorrow.

And that is, you pray, the last lie you'll ever have to tell him.

One by one your co-workers leave, and the next shift filters in. When you glance at the clock and see that it's half past six, your stomach contracts painfully: there's so little time left, and you've barely scraped your thoughts together. But it's too noisy in the rotunda to concentrate.

Gathering up your laptop and notes, you look around for an empty office. Fortunately, not everyone you work with is paranoid, and it only takes you a couple of minutes to find one that isn't locked. Shutting the door and drawing the blinds for added privacy, you slide your laptop onto the desk and flip it open.

You planned to tell him the truth in person, and you still do: after the way you've misled him, you owe him at least that much. But at the same time, you don't trust yourself to be logical, or even coherent, in the midst of shared emotional pain. So in case your explanation ends up making no sense, you'd like to have something to give him that _does_ make sense.

One click of the mouse button and the familiar word processor layout appears, the blank screen awaiting your input. Taking a deep breath, you poise your fingers over the keys, and begin to type a farewell letter to the man you can't help caring for, but know you must leave behind.

Two hours later, you read back over your handiwork, make a few last-minute changes, then tell yourself that you might as well stop tinkering with it, because it's not going to get any better. Rubbing absently at your dry, reddened eyes, you select one of your lesser-used subdirectories (the one you use for recipes, so no one's likely to look there), type in the first filename that comes to mind, and click Save.

Except it won't let you save, because there's already a document by that name.

That's strange: it's not _that_ common a filename. In fact, you could have sworn you'd never used it before, and you can't imagine using it for anything except...

_Oh._

Heart pounding, you rename your existing file, save it to a different directory for good measure, and open up the other document. There's not much time left, so you scroll through the text quickly, praying that nothing in it is going to affect your judgment.

There are a few things there that you didn't know before, or at least, didn't remember. But by the time you've got to the end, you realize that none of those things really matter. The decision you've made, and your reasons for making it, remain the same.

With renewed determination you snap your laptop closed and shove it into your briefcase. Then, with a last glance at the clock, you hurry out of the building and jump into your car.

Normally you'd turn on the radio as soon as you made it to the road, but tonight your troubled thoughts are distraction enough. Your greatest fear has always been of hurting the people you care about; now you're in a situation where that kind of hurt is inevitable. You love two very different men, and they love you in very different ways: now you're forced to say which of those two loves you value most. You've always tried to be unselfish, but now you feel horribly self-centered. And you can't help wondering if you'll come to regret the decision you've made.

If your life were a soap opera, this would be the perfect time for a dramatic plot twist to help you along. Your cell phone would ring, and on the other end would be Carrie, tearfully confessing that she married Weiss in a secret ceremony two years ago, and that he's the real father of her child. Or perhaps it would be Jack on the other end of the line, warning that he's just learned Vaughn is involved in a plot to murder your mother. And suddenly your decision would become - well, no less painful, but easier.

But the scriptwriter of your life is not so easily swayed. And there is no villain in this story.

Unless it's you.

x

The parking lot at Tito's is nearly full, even at this hour: it's a popular local hangout, and their home-made fries are legendary. Light streams through the windows, and in your usual booth at the back corner you can see Vaughn, head bent and forehead furrowed, hands folded around his coffee mug as though hoping its warmth will bring him comfort. He's worried, and beautiful, and he loves you, and the sight of him makes your heart bounce off the top off your stomach like a trampoline, only to lodge halfway up your throat.

For a moment you stand motionless beside your car, keys still in hand, gazing silently at the man you love. What you have to say to him will have a profound effect on both your lives, and Weiss's too; this is your last chance to reconsider, to ask yourself if there might yet be another, better way.

But deep down, in the innermost and most fundamental part of yourself, you know the answer already. And it only takes you a few more seconds before you've mustered enough determination to head up the path to the diner, push the door open and walk in.

Vaughn looks up as you enter, his eyes kindling with relief. He smiles, and you smile back. Then you slide into the booth opposite him, look into his eyes and say before he can even speak:

"I've been doing some thinking. And I've realized - there's really nothing to discuss. I know what I want, I know what I need, and I know what I have to do about it. And Vaughn..."

He looks across at you, his handsome face blank, uncomprehending. Then he sees the tears brimming in your eyes, the trembling of your lips as you smile, and his expression begins to shift from bemusement to incredulous wonder just before you speak those final, life-changing words:

"...I'm sorry."


	7. Part Seven

You've said it. You've done it. You're free. And even though you know you've only just begun to explain yourself, and that the most painful parts of the conversation are still to come, the relief is so overwhelming that you feel like you could slide under the table and sleep for a week.

"You're sorry." Vaughn speaks slowly as though he's confused, but the hope is already fading from his eyes. "Sorry for what?"

"For hurting you a second time, when once was more than enough. For making you think there might still be a chance for us, and then..." You spread your hands, letting the emptiness trickle between your fingers. "I should never have looked at you that way. I won't... I swear it won't happen again."

"Your memory came back." His voice is flat, unquestioning, as though it's the only possible explanation, but you shake your head.

"No. That's not why I made this decision, Michael." Funny, how it seems natural to use his first name now that you know the relationship is over. But _Vaughn_ has come to mean intimate things to you, and right now you can't afford that intimacy.

"Well -" He looks around helplessly and a little angrily, as though he were expecting the answer to leap out of the woodwork but it's already missed its cue. "What have I done wrong?"

"Nothing. Really, I mean it - you haven't done anything to hurt me." It's as true now as it was when you gave him back his ring, all those missing months ago. The old letter you found on your laptop confirmed that much: like the one you wrote tonight, it's full of explanations, but no reproaches.

"You don't trust me." There's an edge of bitterness in his voice: trust has always been a big issue with Vaughn.

"I do trust you. It's just..."

How can you explain this to him, without hurting him even more than you've done already? If you tell him everything, the way you did in your letter (a letter you now know you'll never send - it's too similar to the one you wrote before), it'll only make things worse. Better to focus on the one reason that you know will make sense to him, the only one he can't misinterpret as an insult.

"Whether I remember doing it or not," you say quietly, "I made a promise to Weiss on the day I married him. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. And I think... I believe... if losing my memory isn't for the worse, if it isn't a kind of sickness, then what is?"

Vaughn's jaw tightens. "Look, Syd, I didn't ask you here to try and talk you into an affair. And if that's what you think of me -"

Okay, so maybe he _can_ misinterpret that one. "I know you didn't," you tell him, and that, too, is the truth. Vaughn always wants to do the right thing, tries to do it even when it drives him crazy. He didn't come here tonight to seduce you, or be seduced: he's only here because he believes, with the stubborn idealism that you have always loved him for, that he can help you.

But if you let yourself rely on him, confide in him, the way he wants you to - it would only be a matter of time before you ended up in each other's arms. Because where you and Vaughn are concerned, the passion between you has always, always proved stronger than your principles.

"I know," you say again, more softly. "You just wanted to talk things over, see if we could work something out. But even if we did manage to find some legal loophole, some rationale that would let me leave Weiss, or convince him to leave me - I don't want that any more." In fact, you're no longer sure that you ever did. "I may never feel about Eric the way I felt about you, but you know what? That's not necessarily a bad thing."

It was Sark who opened your eyes, although you can hardly tell that to Vaughn. _Red wine and chocolate,_ he said, and there could hardly be a more accurate description of the bittersweet, intoxicating passion that you and Vaughn shared. It was rich and wonderful and special, and you felt, for a time, as though you could never have enough of it.

But you can't live on red wine and chocolate - or champagne and caviar, either.

_I'm so tired,_ you wrote in your first letter. _Loving you has taken me higher than I ever dreamed possible, but it's also brought me lower than I ever wanted to go. And I know, although you won't say it, that your love for me has done the same to you. We're too alike, Vaughn. We don't balance each other, we only drive each other to extremes. And as much as I love you - and I _do_ love you, so much that I can't imagine loving anyone else the same - I can't live my life this way._

There was a time when you questioned your earlier self's sanity, but now you know she was right. Even now, sitting across from Vaughn in the middle of a crowded diner, you can feel the electricity between you, crackling, sizzling, insatiable. It's exhilarating, but it's also exhausting. And if you gave into it, what would you have left when it was gone?

Vaughn's face is bleak, his eyes gray with despair. "Okay," he says, a little hoarsely. "If that's how you feel, then... I guess there's nothing else to say."

Your hand aches to reach out to him, to comfort him - or yourself - with a touch. But you know better than that. Instead, you force yourself back up to your feet, stand looking down at his bent head a moment, and say softly, "No, there isn't. Goodbye, Michael. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

Then you turn your back on him and walk away.

x

All the way home you're floating on a sea of supernatural calm, but when you finally get out of the car, your legs shake so much you can't walk. You half-lean, half-collapse against the hood of the car, breathing shallowly through the space between your hands, and wait for the tremors to subside.

Is this how you felt the first time, after you returned Vaughn's ring? But then, you had Eric's solid, reassuring presence to lean on - and now you're not sure that you do. Once he knows that you've only been pretending to remember your marriage, that all this time you've been struggling against your feelings for Vaughn... Weiss has always been a fount of practical wisdom where his friends are concerned, but can you really expect him to be objective when his own heart's at stake?

_Try him,_ your mind urges. __Go talk to him right now, and see for yourself.__

_I can't,_ your heart wails.

_Yes, you can. Go._

It's only ten-thirty, and your apartment is still lit. He's awake. And since the windows are open, he probably heard your car pull in - which means it would be cruel to keep him waiting any longer.

Since you became a spy, you've ducked explosions, sprinted through gunfire, defused bombs, and leaped out of airplanes. But none of those things frightened you half as much as the idea of walking up to your own front door does right now. It takes all your reserves of inner strength and determination to force your feet into motion -

\- and yet, once you've taken the first step, the rest follow naturally. By the time you reach the door, there's no more hesitation, only momentum. You twist your key in the lock, turn the knob, and walk in.

The first thing that hits you is a smell: an aroma so rich, so savory, that you feel like you could grab a spoon and eat it straight out of the air. It smells like everything good the world has to offer, all crammed into one pot. Until now you've been too nervous to even think about eating; now you realize you're famished.

"Hey," says Weiss, poking his head out of the kitchen. "Want some soup?"

Slowly you put your laptop case down, letting your jacket slide from your shoulders. "You call that soup? It smells like heaven."

"Yeah, well..." He lifts the lid off the pot and gives it a stir, sending a fresh wave of that delectable odor toward you. "I started with Mom's old recipe, but then I got kind of carried away. It's not so much soup now as, uh, stewp."

He flashes you a grin, and all at once it strikes you that he doesn't look quite his usual laid-back self: there's a hint of anxiety in his eyes, and his manner is almost nervous. "I'd love some," you tell him, swallowing back your apprehension, "whatever you call it."

"That's my girl." He sends a spoon skimming across the counter toward you, then turns back to the stove and starts ladling you a bowl. "Body of a racehorse, appetite of a Komodo Dragon. Here you go - watch it, it's hot. Crackers?"

"No, thanks. This is great." Then, as he sets a wineglass in front of you and begins to pour, "So what's the occasion?"

"Not exactly sure," he admits, topping off your glass and pouring another for himself. "Just... felt like making soup, I guess. Comfort food."

The careful neutrality in his voice stops the spoon halfway to your mouth. Slowly, you look up at him. "Weiss..."

"Shhh," he says. "It's okay. Eat."

But you can't eat, not now. In desperation you push the bowl aside, and begin, too hastily, to speak: "I know I should have told you weeks ago, but - I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how long it would be until I -"

"Syd, wait. No, I'm serious - _Syd."_ He holds up his hands, as though to stem the flow of your words. "You're here. I'm here. We've got all night to talk. Don't rush it, okay?"

You're silent a moment, looking down at the counter between you. Then you say, subdued, "How long have you known?"

He sighs, rubbing his big hands wearily over his face and up into his dark hair. "It wasn't that hard, Syd. You avoided me in bed, you didn't get any of our usual in-jokes, and you kept staring at Vaughn like you'd never seen him before. It only took me a few days to be sure, and by then..." He lets his hands drop and looks at you, his gaze resigned. "By then I'd realized that the only way I could really help you was by keeping my mouth shut and let you work things out for yourself."

_He knew,_ you think numbly. _All that time. And he didn't say anything._

What must it have cost him to stand by and watch you struggle between your feelings for Vaughn and your loyalty to him, knowing that he might very well emerge the loser? How hard must it have been to keep that bitter knowledge to himself, and not use it to pressure or manipulate you?

"You... trusted me... that much?" You can barely get the words out, and his face swims in and out of focus. "Even though I - oh, Weiss, I lied to you, I'm so sorry -"

"Shhh," he says softly, reaching out to take your hands in a warm, steady grip. "I know. You were scared of hurting my feelings. Like I wouldn't have guessed that, Syd - I've known for years what a mushpot you are. It's okay."

"No - it's not just that. Tonight." You swallow hard, fighting the tears. "I told you I was meeting my father, and -"

"You went to meet Vaughn instead. Yeah, I know." He gives a wry grimace. "Why do you think I spent the evening chopping stuff into little bits?"

"I'm so sorry," you whisper.

"Nah. It's called closure, right? One way or another, you needed it. Anyway, it's not like I worried too much about you getting hot and heavy with Vaughn right off the bat. Even if I didn't know you better than that, I know Mike. He'd never sleep with anybody else's wife, especially mine, without angsting over it for at least six months first."

It's a macabre sort of joke, but it gets a smile out of you nonetheless. Weiss grins - oh, now you're in trouble, you've encouraged him - and goes on:

"Besides, when Mike's feeling guilty, he gets this extra-deep furrow in his forehead, like this, right over the eyebrows -"

And he assumes a tragic expression which is so exaggerated, and yet at the same time so like Vaughn, that you have to squeeze your eyes shut and press your lips together to keep from bursting into unworthy giggles.

Only Weiss, of all the men you've ever known, could bring you from tears to laughter in under thirty seconds, and do it all at his own expense. You can't imagine how hard it must have been for him to stay alone in the apartment tonight, knowing all the while where you were, who you were with, and how much he stood to lose if you betrayed his trust. Right now he has every reason to want reassurances from you; instead he's doing his best to put _you_ at ease.

And he's done a good job of it, too. The knot in your stomach has loosened, your tears have dried, and you're no longer trembling. You turn your hands over and lace your fingers through his, squeezing them gratefully.

"I don't deserve you," you tell him, and you mean it.

_You could have had red wine and chocolate,_ mocks Sark's voice in your head. For opening your eyes to the truth about your relationship with Vaughn, and your own self-centeredness in thinking you somehow _deserved_ a handsomer, more conventionally passionate man than Weiss, you thank him. But in the end Sark was only half right, and not even the most important half.

Because there is more, so much more, to Eric Weiss than "beer and pretzels". And the kind of love he offers you doesn't just feed your cravings, it nourishes your soul.

"Just so you know," you say softly, "just so there's no mistake - I told Vaughn there was nothing to discuss. And I won't be meeting him again. Or at least... not without you."

His face goes very still, and you realize that this may well be the first moment since you came in the door that he could be certain, and not merely hopeful, that you had made the right choice. "I'm... that's... uh... thanks," he says at last, then abruptly lets go of your hands and turns away to stir the soup, even though it doesn't need stirring.

You don't remember ever seeing Eric close to tears before, and the sight of his bent head and slightly hunched shoulders does strange, painful things to your heart. Instinctively you move to him, sliding your arms around his waist and laying your cheek against his back. "I know I still have a lot to learn about loving you," you say softly. "Especially if my memory never returns. But Eric... I'm here now. And I want to try."

He stops stirring then, and turns within the circle of your arms to look down at you. His eyes are a little too bright, but clear, and they look into yours with a tenderness that sends a thrill through your bones. "You know what?" he says.

"No. What?"

He takes your chin in his hand, tilting your face up toward him. "Marrying you? Best thing I ever did."

Then he smiles, and your heart is so full of relief and gratitude and happiness that you can't help smiling back. You stand there unmoving, gazing at each other, while the awareness of his body against yours kindles a slow fire within you; then, unable to bear it any longer, you pull his head down and press your lips to his.

It starts off sweet, tender, almost tentative, like a first kiss. And in a way, it _is_ your first: after all, you've never kissed him before of your own free will, only out of guilt or duty. But as his hands slide down your neck, over your shoulders and down to your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your light cotton sweater to brush the skin beneath, sweet and tender is suddenly not enough. You grab his shoulders, pull him around and shove him up against the wall; he gives a breathless laugh, and the last of his reserve vanishes as he kisses you back, long and hard.

Time blurs, and the rest of the world recedes into irrelevance: for a long time you are aware of nothing but his hands, his mouth moving hungrily, insistently, over your skin. Then, without warning, he pulls away from you and says in a husky voice, "Syd. Enough. Go eat your soup."

"My... what?" For a moment you don't trust your ears. "Did you say _soup?"_

"Yeah." His hands are on your shoulders, steering you back to the counter, pushing you gently down onto a stool. "Spoon - here. Bowl - here. Eat."

Mechanically, still half-dazed, you lift the spoon to your mouth. The soup's no longer hot, but it's warm enough to be palatable. Weiss watches you intently as you eat, as though determined to make sure every spoonful goes where it's supposed to, and only when the bowl's half empty do you dare to ask, "Why?"

"Because," he says. "I'll bet you haven't eaten a decent meal all day. And if you kiss me like that again, believe me -" He leans down until his face is close to yours, and gives you that slow, vulpine grin that makes your stomach flip - "you're going to need all the strength you can get."

He doesn't have Vaughn's beautiful cheekbones and heart-stopping smile, or his restless intensity. But you can't help noticing that he's got gorgeous eyes, and that the way he's looking at you right now is as sexy as anything you've ever seen.

Without hesitation you tip the bowl up against your mouth and swallow the rest of its contents in three quick gulps. Then, while he's still staring at you in astonished hilarity, you slam the bowl down like it's a shot glass, and tackle him.

He falls down, whooping with laughter. But when you pin him with one hand and start undoing his shirt buttons with the other, your lips brushing along his jaw and down his throat, he stops laughing. And when a moment later he pulls you against him and rolls you over for a deep, lingering kiss, things between you become very serious indeed.

x

"...So I walk into the consulate," says Eric a considerable time later, "wearing the mustache from hell - and I'm not kidding, this thing is like two inches thick, and it feels like it's held on with Elmer's School Glue -"

His left arm is under your head, his right encircling your waist; there's a nest of blankets and pillows around you, and you're as comfortable as you've ever been in your life - except for the fact that your sides are starting to hurt from suppressed laughter.

"- I mean, it's like it was Amateur Night in the CIA makeup department or something. But there's no time to fix it, so I figure I've just got to brazen it out and hope for the best. So they introduce me to Dr. Haagensen - who is a very pretty lady in her fifties, very elegant - and she takes me up to her office and starts telling me about the project, and halfway through her speech this crazy mustache starts to _peel off_ -"

You bury your face in the pillow, making strangled noises. Eric carries blithely on:

"- so I do the only thing I can do, which is to stick my finger under my nose and hold the thing on. But then, of course, it looks like I'm just about to sneeze, and she gets this concerned look on her face as she's talking, and I keep nodding and making gestures like, _go on, go on, never mind, I'll be okay_, but finally she stops and says 'Dr. Rosenblum, whatever is wrong?' and I know it's hopeless, I'm not going to get a thing more out of her now, the only thing to do is escape.

"So I say, totally off the top of my head, I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, 'I'm sorry, I'm allergic to...' and then I look for something I can be allergic to, and there's _nothing._ The room's all wood and marble tile, there's no fur trim or wool or anything on her clothes - all I can see is this big chunky gold necklace and earrings she's wearing. So I blurt out, 'gold dust', and then I bolt -"

You push yourself up on your elbows to stare at him, your mouth open in disbelief. _"Gold dust?_ You actually told her -"

"Yeah, well, my other idea was to whip off the mustache, stick it to her forehead and act like an escaped mental patient until Security came and dragged me out, but somehow I didn't think Dixon would approve."

The very idea of Weiss having to tell this story at his debriefing the next day sends you into fresh spasms of giggles. He grins at you, obviously pleased with your reaction, until you regain your composure enough to beg, "No more stories. My ribs won't take it."

"Spoilsport," he says, but mildly. You curl closer to him, relishing the warmth of skin against skin, and lay your head on his shoulder. A drowsy contentment steals over you, an afterglow of satiation and laughter, and you muse to yourself how different this night would have been if you'd chosen Vaughn instead. But then, you'd never have known what you were missing...

Sark would be doubly disappointed in you right now, you can't help thinking: he would have told you that you should have followed your first instincts without thought of guilt or duty, that passion makes its own rules and the only real sin is playing it safe. But as Irina Derevko's daughter, you've already tasted the bitter fruit of that philosophy, and you want nothing more to do with it.

Circumstances may force you to continue working as a CIA agent, to operate daily the machinery of secrecy and deception, but you can't live your personal life by the same principles or you'll drive yourself and everyone around you insane. You don't need more drama in your life; you don't need more complications and mind games; you don't need to be caught up in an anarchy of desire. What you needed all along, but never knew you wanted until now, is all right here: a quiet house and a warm bed, the smell of homemade soup in the air, and the arms of an ordinary man.

Weiss's breathing has deepened, and his eyes are closed. In a few minutes he'll probably start to snore, but that's all right: all you have to do is give him a nudge and he'll turn over. You snuggle against him, smiling reminiscently at the thought of the unorthodox and hilarious means of locomotion the two of you used to get into bed. Your marriage to Weiss might seem safe and conventional from the outside, but after tonight you know it's going to be anything but dull.

Slowly, your eyes drift closed. For the first time in weeks, you're completely relaxed, and you think sleepily that you might even be able to...

Sunlight wakes you, a bar of burning gold across your lids, and you sit up abruptly, startled. What happened to your mental alarm clock? Or the real one, for that matter? You throw out an arm and turn it around to face you. 9:05 - oh _no._

Flinging the covers aside, you leap out of bed and start pulling clothes out of the closet. No time to shower: you'll just have to scrape your hair into a ponytail and hope for the best. You grab your favorite gold locket off the dresser and fasten it around your neck, then slide into nylons and a smooth black shift. The bare minimum of makeup, and a tailored jacket over top, and you're professional enough to pass muster.

Well, at least you've had a good night's sleep. And you dreamed, too, a dream so vivid and seemingly coherent that you could have sworn it was real. Something about Weiss, and talking to Vaughn in a diner... but no, it's gone now, and anyway you don't have time to think about it.

There are no men's suits hanging in your closet, no rings threaded on the chain about your neck. Weiss lives two doors down, and Vaughn is married to Lauren; and the mystery of your two missing years looms like a dark cloud on your mental horizon, too fearful and ominous to let you even think about trying to have a normal life. If you thought that you had found happiness, it was just a dream.

And yet, for the next few weeks, you'll find yourself acting strangely around Weiss. Avoiding him, in fact, even though he's just the kind of solid, dependable, compassionate friend you need most at a time like this, because for some reason the balance of your friendship doesn't feel quite _right_ any more. Fortunately, he won't hold it against you: he knows you've got a lot on your mind. Besides, he's busy trying to help Vaughn sort _his_ life out.

In the end, you may never marry Weiss, or even so much as date him. You may find yourself back with Vaughn, if his marriage to Lauren falls apart. You may meet someone completely new. You may, for all you know, end up with Sark. But wherever you go, whoever you're with, some buried part of you will remember how it felt to have Eric's arms around you, what it was like to finally know peace. And as long as you remember that, you will never be wholly content with anyone else.

They warned you about the dreams. If only they knew.

THE END


End file.
